


the light is no mystery

by Mizzy



Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Canon - Book, Feelings Realization, Intervention, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28628166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: The banner stretched across the room reads: INTERVENTION.“Oh hell no,” Eliot says, and turns on his heel to storm out of the room.#The other royals stage an intervention to try and get Eliot to realize that he talks much too much about one topic: Quentin Coldwater.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	the light is no mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/gifts).



The banner stretched across the room reads: INTERVENTION.  
  
“Oh hell no,” Eliot says, and turns on his heel to storm out of the room. But this crop of Fillorian royalty aren’t just children of Earth, are they—they’re motherfucking _magicians_ goddammit—and even he can’t outcast Poppy, Josh, Janet, and Plum all springing a well-orchestrated pincer movement of spells designed to keep him in the room.  
  
The four traitors had _practiced._ Eliot is incandescent with rage, but if there’s one single shred of dignity that he has left at this embarrassing point in his life, it’s that he refuses to give Janet the pleasure of seeing it on his face.  
  
“Oh yeah, he’s pissed,” Janet crows, the instant he turns around, god _dammit_ , Janet.  
  
Eliot tries to grit his teeth but can’t even fucking do _that_ properly, thanks to Doctor Mac and his forceps and his twisted ideas that kids should be delivered like farmyard animals—considering what Mama put up with at home, she was probably somehow into pain (the world and its inhabitants knew Eliot wasn’t one to judge a predisposition towards the more fun end of an adult menu), and even now he suspects she’d have been into the notion of a C-section if only to have a story to tell at church about the wind making her ol’ Eliot-inflicted scar ache. Mama always loved a bit of attention; Eliot comes by his grandstanding and need to be the centre of attention honestly.  
  
But honestly, this much attention is way too much, even for him.  
  
Being King has taught Eliot some things—namely that even Kings can’t get out of the _occasional_ yawn-worthy duty—and the fastest way out is sometimes regretfully through. So he folds his arms and tilts his head. Best to get it over with fast so he can go back to his actual important Kingly details like...what color drapes should adorn the west-facing windows now that Castle Crimsonspire had adopted an external palette with actual color, unlike its bland, goes-with-everything predecessor. Okay, maybe Eliot’s life is kind of mundane and maybe he needs an intervention, but the assholes confronting him are the last people on Fillory that he’d ever admit this to.  
  
“You know, I never had to put up with this sort of shit when Quentin was on the throne,” Eliot sighs, and—Poppy yells “ha!” and slaps her thigh, Josh shakes his head, and Janet rolls her eyes so high Eliot’s worried for a second that she’s stroking out. “Wait, what am I missing here?”  
  
“The fact you’re a fucking predictable idiot,” Janet says, once her pupils have returned to where they’re supposed to be. “That’s exactly why we’re doing this.”  
  
Eliot squints and then his eyes widen. “We’re getting Quentin back? But which one of you is giving up your throne? And why would it be an intervention if it’s a resignation, because if it is a resignation, as High King I should be involved on choosing the replacement—although to be fair if Quentin is the candidate, I’m into it—“  
  
“Quentin’s not coming back,” Janet cuts through.  
  
“Oh,” Eliot says, feeling abruptly deflated. “Okay. Fine. Whatever.”  
  
“Eliot,” Poppy says, “how often do you bring up Quentin in conversation?”  
  
“A regular amount,” Eliot says, promptly. “No more nor less than anyone else. I only mentioned him now because you all did first.”  
  
All three of them shook their heads.  
  
“We didn’t bring his name up, man,” Josh says. “You did.”  
  
Eliot frowns. “I—fine. Okay. I did. So what? What’s that got to do with anything?”  
  
“We just need to talk,” Poppy says. “You’re clearly unhappy.”  
  
“I clearly am not,” Eliot instantly protests. He’s happy. He’s thrilled. He’s giddy, even. He’s the High King of Fillory, its noble protector. He loves every inch of the place, and every life in it. Well. There’s a couple of river nymphs he can take or leave. And no one would cry if the Fenwick family copied the clockwork dwarves and took a rocket ship to the stars. The point remains: Eliot Waugh is fucking spectacular, thank you very much. He’s completely content. Quentin would agree with him—they’re being ridiculous.  
  
“You’re starting to be a real bum,” Josh says, regretfully. “I’ve tried to hang out with you more, but it’s such a downer. You mention Quentin every five minutes.”  
  
“It’s getting sad,” Janet says. “I mean, I like Quentin enough, I guess I see the appeal. Kinda.”  
  
Eliot bristles. “Kinda?”  
  
“You’ve got a Quentin problem, and this is your intervention for it,” Poppy says, firmly.

"You keep offering him really weird jobs every time he comes by, it's embarrassing how many stupid positions you've opened up just to try and lure him to stay," Josh says. "I don't use the word embarrassing lightly."  
  
“Either stop talking about Quentin every four sentences—we’ve counted—the maids whisper _bingo_ every time you say it!—or go after him, and find him, and tell him about your big stinky human feelings for him,” Janet says.  
  
Eliot frowns. “My what?”  
  
“You’re embarrassing yourself, man. You’ve been hot for Coldwater since year zero.” Josh spreads his wide hands. “Sorry, man. Nut up or shut up.”  
  
“We’ve got the palace travel buttons,” Janet says. “There’s nothing stopping you from going to Earth for a little while.”  
  
“Oh, I can see exactly what’s going on now. You just want my throne for yourself. I never had to put up with this sort of shit when Quentin—“ Eliot starts, then freezes. Are they right? _Does_ he talk about Quentin that much?  
  
This is stupid. It’s the three of them being weird. Eliot’s perfectly fine. Quentin would agree with him. He’s pretty sure. If Quentin was here he’d—not notice that Eliot—really is kind of obsessed with him. Because Quentin’s so oblivious.

But...apparently Eliot is too?

Jesus.

The three stooges are right.

Who fucking knew Eliot had a weird possible thing for _Quentin Coldwater_?  
  
Eliot needs some time and space to process. He’s not proud that his solution is to point behind the three of them and loudly yell “what is that?”, but they’re the idiots that fall for it, so who here really got the biggest whack from the stupid stick? He uses the second of confusion to cast a shield that will help him break their web of curses, and he makes a run for it.  
  
He might be petty and send back a small magical fireball to take out the intervention banner as he goes.

* * *

So. Eliot’s been... kind of forced to face up to the fact he doesn’t just nobly love Fillory and only Fillory. He supposes he now has to try and figure out what the fuck to do about it. It’s not easy when the object of his affections is possibly the smartest moron in the universe?  
  
Eliot finds himself lurking in the bottom of the castle. The basement is musty and kind of gross, but there are valid reasons for a High King to be rummaging around the extremities of his magnificent abode, and… Eliot will come up with those reasons if he needs to.

He hasn't been down in here in, well, ever, if one was keeping track of that sort of thing. But it turns out that Fillory went to the brink of total destruction regularly enough that the basement of Whitespire had been fortified, enough that it survived the turmoil and fire and general apocalypticness of the castle's pre-Crimson era, and there's a veritable army of junk down here. Eliot probably should do a more thorough investigation into _how_ frequently Fillory undergoes an apocalypse. He's not sure the last one did amazing things to his hair. A man should be prepared in advance for that sort of tumult.

Eliot's aware his brain is doing silly things, mostly because it's better than thinking about what happened upstairs. Distractions are better than curling up on the floor and screaming, Eliot's fairly sure about that. And it's when he's pottering around that he finds an entire room of chairs—Eliot's three seconds from labeling the whole room as a resource for kindling, but then Eliot notices one is carved more like a nest than a chair, and he realizes what they are: they're thrones. The carved ones, like they have upstairs around the table they discuss important royal matters. There are hundred of them. There must be one for every deposed monarch of Fillory, including that nest for old Wildwings, who by all reports was quite an excessive partier. Now Eliot can see the nest-throne and the dubious stains on it, he can see the rumors weren't exaggerated.

Eliot sinks down onto the nearest chair and tries not to think about how long it will be until Janet, Poppy, Josh, and he all have chairs down in this morbid furniture graveyard. His fingers idly trace the carved shapes on the throne he's slumped on, and his touch stutters for a moment and he has to laugh. Of all the chairs in all of Fillory, he had to sit down on Quentin's?

He really is obsessed, isn't he? Christ. Quentin Coldwater. Eliot can replay a hundred thousand moments now in his mind, and he's quite embarrassed by a number of them. Sobbing on the beach. Kissing Quentin. Carrying that damn watch around for an entire year, ignoring anyone who told him he was being an idiot about that sea voyage—it had all turned out, hadn't it? They'd saved magic, hadn't they?

Eliot shakes his head. Well. It's better to laugh than cry about it. Although he wants to do both. His fingers keep tracing the carved shapes—the curves of the playing card suits and the angular branches of the Questing Beast, and as for the third item, Eliot has to get up to look at it, and he gives in to a strangled, sort of chuckle, because Fillory might be Eliot's pride and joy but it's also fucking _weird_ , what possessed the Castle carpenter to carve the headless corpse of the Beast on it?

He ends up slumping back into the chair, only because it is surprisingly comfortable for a chair carved from wood, and because Eliot decides his ass deserves to be coddled if he's going to be sulking on it for an extended period of time.

It's not like Eliot hasn't seen Quentin in years, or anything. Quentin's been by fairly frequently, now he's made that Land of his. Janet keeps talking about Annexing it for Fillory, but Eliot shoots her down every time, because he—Oh. He insists that Annexing it might put Quentin off from his visits, and they're rare enough as it is. Hm. Eliot's not sure he's enjoying looking at his life through the lens of Quentin-Coldwater-obsession.

That's the thing, though—Quentin could have stayed. Eliot has asked, so many times, whether he would stay in Fillory. Eliot's offered a thousand different jobs. Adventurer. Ambassador. Researcher. Teacher. Official Cake Taster. Quentin laughs every time and then every fucking time takes off into the sunset to do whatever fucking else that's not here and by Eliot's side.

The conclusion is very clear. Quentin's had every chance to stay and he never fucking does. Eliot rubs at his eyes. What's the point of forcing him through such a humiliating intervention if it's just going to hurt thinking about it?

″Ah, this is where you are,″ Janet says, and Eliot slumps lower in the chair and groans. ″Don't be such a fucking baby,″ she adds. ″It's bad enough we have so many in the Castle as it is.″

Josh and Poppy hadn't stopped at one. They seem to be trying to single-handedly fill the thrones of Whitespires with their whiny little offspring. The eldest is nearly three. Eliot caught her trying to chew one of the tapestries last week. It was… ridiculously cute actually and Eliot had a heart-pounding moment where he remembered thinking, quite clearly, ″oh this is why people have kids then, huh?″ and he was so appalled by himself that he went and actually put his head in the nearest pool just so he could cool off. But that's neither here-nor-there right now. Even if...Quentin would absolutely make a wonderful father. Eliot can picture it. But then he pictures Quentin with a cute wife by his side, and now he just feels nauseated. Emotions. They're fucking overrated, Eliot thinks, viciously. But emotions is what he's feeling—too many of them, all over the place.

Quentin has stopped by, fairly frequently, but he never stays when Eliot asks him to. Isn't that crystal clear enough message by now?

″Just leave me alone,″ Eliot whines, but Janet interprets that as _please, stay close_ which is just fucking like her. He closes his eyes and pinches his nose. Maybe she'll wander away in boredom if he ignores her. He probably shouldn't be making a continuous, soft, whining noise like he's injured, if he wants her to leave. He just can't seem to stop it coming out of his mouth. ″Why doesn't he want me, Janet?″

″Oh, you giant idiot,″ Janet sighs, which is an endearment when it comes from her. She leans in and rubs his back haltingly, like she's not quite sure what she's doing.

″I ask him to stay all the time. He never does.″

″True. But you ask him to stay for stupid reasons. Have you ever asked him to stay for _you_?″

″I only just figured out how I feel. But why would I tell him? If it's so obvious to all of you—″

″This is Quentin we're talking about. You have the emotional range of a chicken—which is leagues above his, which is—he has about the emotional range of a spoon. It's bad. I feel sorry for him. Constantly. But you're still leagues better than he is. And we had to tell you how you felt. Why would he be any different?″

Eliot inhales sharply through his nose. He hates it when she has a point. ″Hm,″ he says, non-committal. ″Would you—″

″Heaven's no,″ Janet interrupts, immediately. She stops rubbing his back and Eliot snaps an eye open to complain, and she's folding her arms, glaring at him.

″I hadn't even finished my question!″

″And the answer's still no: we won’t stage another fucking intervention for Coldwater. The first one gave me hives.″

Eliot opens both eyes to stare at her, touched. ″You made yourself itchy? For me?″

″Yeah,″ Janet grumbles. ″Turns out while I was misguided about the romantic feels I, y'know, once thought I had for you, I still maybe sort of might. Y'know. Platonically love your stupid, lanky ass.″

Eliot's vision blurs. ″Janet,″ he whispers.

Janet glares at him. ″If you fucking cry, I will fucking stab you.″

Eliot smiles through the threatening tears. ″That's my sweet Janet.″

* * *

The intervention must have been timed on purpose because Quentin comes by the next day, and Eliot's heart pounds the entire time like he's a teenager again. It's ridiculous. The entire palace staff, not just the other royalty, keep giving him _looks_.

Quentin invites him to go for an after-dinner walk down to the shore, and Janet catches Eliot by the elbow on the way out.

″So help me, if you don't tell him I'll boil your testicles in acid,″ Janet hisses which—yeah—uh—that helps calm Eliot down a little, oddly. He probably needs help.

Quentin's his usual self as they wander down the long, gentle path to the shoreline. He rambles about the research he's been doing about portals—he's working with the safe houses, trying to make them safer—and Eliot lets Quentin's voice wash over him. There's something pleasant about how excited Quentin gets about things. They talk for hours—they always do, when Quentin visits—there's a spot on the bluffs where they like to sit and watch the sunrise, and talk about the sights on Eliot's Muntjac voyage, and things that Quentin's missed in his time away from Fillory.

Eliot's probably staring at Quentin too much, because Quentin keeps fumbling his paragraphs, and there's an interesting blush on his cheeks, and—as usual—after the sun lights the ocean up in a cacophony of pink and orange and red, Quentin makes noises about heading back to his Land so he can get home, and Eliot's stomach hurts.

Home is here. Quentin's home is _here_.

They stand in unison, Quentin's white hair catching the sunlight distractingly, and Quentin smiles at him, one of those slightly-uneven ones that makes Eliot feel like the two of them are sharing a delightful in-joke no one else will ever understand.

″So what job are you going to offer me this time,″ Quentin says, laughing a little. ″Mouse wrangler? Tree sniffer?″

Eliot frowns. Has he been that ridiculous? ″I've never offered you any position in the castle remotely close to that,″ he sniffs.

″Last time you asked if I wanted to stay and write legislation for regulation pizza sizes in Fillory,″ Quentin says, and Eliot grimaces, because, yeah, that might have been his last-ditch offer last time Quentin was here.

″They're still not grasping the concept of Italian food,″ Eliot sighs. ″No, actually—I—no job offer today.″

″Oh,″ Quentin says, and he looks—disappointed? ″Okay. I might have said yes this time, that's all.″

Eliot's heart leaps in his chest. Could Quentin be serious? Except, Quentin's a sarcastic little troll most of the time. But—that doesn't mean he's joking. He looks serious, actually. ″Well, I was wondering—″ Eliot starts.

″Yeah?″

″—if you'd be interested in a Marine Biology position,″ Eliot finishes, because he's a coward, and there _had_ been an interesting crab dancing around in the sand, earlier in their conversation, and Quentin had pointed it out—it had a tuft of hairs on its back. That was interesting. Quentin was obviously interested. It could be a lure for him to stay.

″Oh,″ Quentin says, and visibly sags. ″Oh. Um. Maybe—I'll think about it,″ he mumbles.

″Good,″ Eliot says, while inwardly wanting to smack himself in the face, because he's so goddamned stupid.

″Right. I'll see you next time I stop by,″ Quentin says, and jams his hands in his pockets, ready to stalk off to wherever that Land of his actually is—Eliot tries to figure it out, but it's hidden to him. Like his own heart sometimes, apparently.

Eliot waits until Quentin turns around to walk off, and—then his heart kicks in on its own, making him blurt out, ″Wait!″

Quentin turns, his face a question mark, and Eliot feels impossibly flustered, and desperately uncool, and altogether not like a put-together adult at all, which is ridiculous—but Quentin is staring at him, and there's a hope in Quentin's eyes, and Eliot's wondering whether Quentin's as oblivious now as he used to be. Because it kind of seems—like maybe Quentin's hoping for Eliot to say something else.

″Stay,″ Eliot says. His heart is pounding in his ears. His mouth's dry. This moment feels so monumentally important. If Quentin says no, Eliot doesn't know what he'll do. He hopes there's enough alcohol in Fillory so that he doesn't have to think for at least a month.

″Oh,″ Quentin says, awkwardly, ″I'm not that interested in marine life—I mean, I guess the evolution of arthropods is a little bit interesting, but nothing—I mean, it's a kind offer—″

″I meant stay for me,″ Eliot says, firmly. He feels as wild as the magic Fillory is made of. He's staring and probably looks manic and unhinged and he wouldn't blame Quentin for running for the hills right now.

But Quentin blushes again, quite prettily in the morning sunlight, and he smiles like the encroaching dawn. ″Now that,″ Quentin says, walking back over to him at an encouragingly fast clip, ″is something I'm much more interested in.″

Eliot grins, Quentin pushes him down into the long grass of the dunes, and Eliot holds on tight and falls with him.


End file.
